Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  The god of silence loathed granting Nadya power; he’d once voiced they should revoke her magic completely. It was a shame his power was so damn useful because he was so crotchety that Nadya avoided dealing with him whenever possible.

  She sent a tentative plea and, assuming she’d been denied, was shocked when suddenly a string of holy speech swept through her head. She felt the barest surge of irritation.

  Thank you, Zlatek.

  There was no response. She passed her thumb over Marzenya’s bead. If she needed to kill the Tranavian here, she would be ready. He wasn’t going to catch her unaware.

  Her senses grew fuzzy as she whispered Zlatek’s spell, but when she shifted the ice underneath made no sound. She glanced at Malachiasz.

  “Fascinating.” His lips moved but there was no sound. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  Zlatek had spread the spell to Malachiasz as well.

  Cheeky. She held a finger to her lips, grinning. Even her breathing was made silent by Zlatek’s spell. The drawback was her senses were dulled as well.

  Just below the overhang were the prince and his lieutenants. The girl with one eye was still on her horse while both boys had dismounted. She looked bored, her chin on her hand, elbow resting on the pommel of her saddle.

  “If we continue east, we’ll be fine,” she said.

  The prince shook his head and rummaged in his saddlebags, pulling out a map. “Unroll that,” he said as he handed it to the boy with dark brown skin. “We’ll ride straight into the front, and I, personally, would rather not deal with the entire Kalyazi army.”

  “A detour will take us days, Serefin. We’d end up skirting the lake country.”

  Serefin ignored her, moving over to where the other boy had the map laid out against a tree. He faced the ridge where Nadya and Malachiasz were hiding. Nadya would be fine if he glanced up, her hair was practically the same color as the snow. Malachiasz, though …

  She tugged her white scarf off her neck, shoving it at him. If he wasn’t going to toss her over the side for the prince to capture, then she didn’t want them caught because his hair looked like ink against paper. He stared at her blankly. She rolled her eyes, setting the scarf over his head. Realization sparked and he tied the scarf over his hair before settling back down in the snow.

  Their timing couldn’t have been better as the prince chose then to glance up at the top of the cliff. Her palms were sweating even as they pressed against the snow. She lifted her head again after a few tense seconds passed.

  “We have to go farther north,” the prince was saying, his voice a low, musing hum. Nadya, only passably fluent, had to concentrate to keep up with his Tranavian. “I would love to tack on as many weeks to this journey as possible, but I suppose there’s no point.”

  “It’s only marriage, Serefin,” the other boy teased.

  The prince just sighed. “Tranavia hasn’t had a Rawalyk in generations. The illusion of choice is worse than just being told to marry some random slavhka I’ve only met once in my life.”

  Nadya slid her fingers over the hilt of her voryen. Malachiasz’s hand landed over hers. He shook his head at her scowl and she yanked her hand away. Her skin crawled from his touch.

  Nadya missed the prince’s next words as Malachiasz moved backwards so he could stand without being seen. She rolled out of sight and to her feet.

  Once they were a safe distance away from the prince, he cut a finger over his throat. She broke off the spell and he let out a breath as the magic lifted. Nadya shivered as her senses realigned. Malachiasz untied the scarf from around his head and handed it to her.

  “Blood and bone,” he murmured. “Are there other clerics who can do what you can?”

  Nadya shrugged. “I’m the only one I know of. That doesn’t mean I’m the only one. And the spell nearly didn’t work; Zlatek isn’t known to be cooperative.”

  He crooked his head to one side.

  “God of silence? We don’t have many churches dedicated to him. I think there’s one in Tobalsk.”

  Malachiasz shook his head.

  “Right. You’re Tranavian.”

  He smiled slightly. It was the first genuine smile she had seen from him, and he looked younger, less intimidating. He couldn’t be much older than her. He started to walk back to the church.

  “That was a perfectly good assassination opportunity you foiled,” she said as she crunched through the snow after him.

  “Assassinating the High Prince while he’s on Kalyazi soil will achieve nothing but renewed vigor from Tranavia,” Malachiasz replied.

  “Him being dead would be an achievement of its own,” she muttered. “I failed to catch the significance of him going home…” Nadya trailed off as Malachiasz hesitantly pushed open the doors to the church, a frown forming on his face.

  The churchyard was utterly silent.

  “We weren’t out there for very long,” Nadya said.

  “It’s not that…” he murmured. Then he swore under his breath.

  Suddenly he was pressing two bloody fingers against the doorframe, his dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He reached for the book at his side, tearing out a page and pressing it against the door. Blood seeped into the paper. The lines of blood formed a three-pronged symbol that spread out over the entire door.

  “Stay back,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Something’s been cast on the church,” he said slowly. “Someone from Tranavia wants to know who’s here.”

  Nadya took a wide step back. “The prince?”

  “No. Wrong direction. I don’t suppose you have a god for curse breaking?”

  Nadya let out a breathless laugh. She couldn’t ignore the significance of his asking, even if he meant it as a joke. “No, sorry.”

  “Shame. I’ll have to do it myself.”

  He used his wicked-looking dagger to cut a line down his forearm. Nadya winced. His arms were riddled with scars and half-healed cuts, layers of them arranged in a ridged, messy, cross-hatching pattern.

  “Hold this, please?” He handed her his spell book.

  She took it, bewildered.

  When he stepped away from the page on the door it remained stuck to the wood, the symbol glowing faintly around the edges. He swiped two fingers through the bleeding cut on his arm and moved to the wall next to the door. He scrawled a series of symbols onto the wood with his blood. Suddenly he stopped and something akin to horror crossed his face.

  “Oh,” he said. “This is very bad.”

  He turned to her, flipping open his spell book while it was still in her hands. She held it up, only moderately disgusted he was using her as a book stand.

  “It’s a good thing I have practice at this from my acolyte days,” she muttered.

  “I was going to say,” he said absently as he flipped through the pages. “You’re very good.”

  “I have many talents.”

  His lips quirked into a bare smile.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s bad, or…?”

  He looked up at her, all color draining from his face.

  “You’re Kalyazi.”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Nadya,” he breathed out, and there was something in the way he used her name that made her feel too warm and too cold all at once. She blinked up at him, sudden terror gripping her. He looked shaken, and she didn’t really want to contemplate just what could frighten this blood mage.

  “It’s the Vultures.”

  A chill swept through her. She felt a stirring in the back of her head. The gods were distressed. Her joints locked up and ice wormed its way into her bones. How was this happening? First the High Prince, now the Vultures?

  She couldn’t run from the Vultures. She couldn’t run from the darkest nightmares of Tranavia.

  Malachiasz tore out multiple pages of his spell book and frantically scrawled blood over the wood and torn pages. “If they come here, you and I won’t be long for this world.”

  “Why w
ould you be in danger?” she asked. If she focused on the little things, maybe terror wouldn’t swallow her alive. “Because you defected from the army?”

  He stopped writing, closing his eyes and whispering something fast under his breath in Tranavian that Nadya couldn’t catch. He let out a bitter laugh and turned to look at her, his pale eyes full of fear. “Because I defected from them.”

  9

  SEREFIN

  MELESKI

  Svoyatovi Roman Luski: Appointed as a bishop in secret by half of the Council of 1213, Luski fought to maintain Kalyazi control of the eastern provinces. It was a losing battle, as Dobromir Tsekhanovetsky gained the votes of the other half and betrayed his country’s trust by handing the provinces to the Tranavian king.

  —Vasiliev’s Book of Saints

  Three mages against two dozen soldiers, and Serefin only had a bare handful of spells left. The Kalyazi camp was just down the hill, the predawn dim revealing only a few soldiers awake.

  Ostyia flipped twin szitelki in her hands, impatient while Serefin carefully shifted through his last five spells. If they ran into any more Kalyazi on their journey home, he would be in trouble.

  “What do you have left?” Kacper asked, his voice low. He leaned on his staff. Razor-sharp metal was tied to the tip of it.

  Serefin showed Kacper his painfully thin spell book. Kacper selected one of the remaining spells. The chosen spell would burn for a while, creating a sufficient distraction while Ostyia and Kacper finished off any soldiers not already boiling from the inside out from Serefin’s magic.

  Serefin eventually made his way down the hill once the sounds of struggle had ceased. He found Ostyia cheerfully riffling through rucksacks with provisions. “I don’t think we’ll have to stop by the border now,” she said.

  “Should we do something about the bodies?” Kacper asked.

  Serefin shook his head, squinting up at the morning sky. “No, let the buzzards have them.”

  Ostyia tossed Kacper a rucksack as he went to fetch the horses.

  “Hey now, what’s this?” Serefin heard Ostyia murmur as she lifted a tent flap and peered inside.

  He followed after her and watched as she picked up a book discarded on the tent floor. There was a small pile of them inside. She flipped through it before handing it to him and picking up another.

  “These are Tranavian spell books,” she said, frowning.

  Serefin knew the Kalyazi burned the spell books they picked off Tranavian bodies. If they could help it, they avoided even touching them.

  “There’s Kalyazi written in some of them,” Ostyia noted.

  Serefin found a page in the book he was holding where blocky Kalyazi script was scrawled in the margins. He frowned. It was a cross between a Kalyazi diary and musings on the functions of the spells written in the book.

  Well, it seems not every Kalyazi is so rigidly devout, he thought. He recognized the structure of Kalyazi prayers amidst the spells. Were they trying to merge the two?

  “Are they all like this?” he asked.

  She opened a few more, flipped through them, then nodded.

  “Collect a few,” Serefin said. “I want a closer look.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “Desperation.” Serefin stepped over a dead officer’s body. “The Kalyazi are losing the war. One might even say they’re becoming heretical.”

  * * *

  The border came and passed without trouble. Serefin tried not to worry. They were so far north they skirted the front entirely, but they had found the border unmanned and unguarded.

  It was as if the war had grown routine. This stretch of border used to be carefully watched, but they were losing resources. He would have to remember to post a company to keep the border, even in the north. It would be too easy for Kalyazi troops to slip into Tranavia using this same route through the mountains into the marshlands.

  “I can’t decide if you complained more when we were in Kalyazin or now that we’re back in Tranavia,” Ostyia said.

  While the change in temperature had not been immediate, it was obvious they were no longer in Kalyazin. There was barely any snow on the ground or trees. It was still cold—the long winter that had struck Kalyazin had graced Tranavia as well—but it was nothing like the frigid bite of Kalyazi air.

  Also, it was raining. Serefin might have mentioned his dismay at traveling through the rain.

  “It’s simply my nature,” he replied.

  “I can’t argue with that,” she muttered.

  “I’ve mentioned I hate the marshlands, right?” Kacper said. “While we’re all getting our complaints out.”

  “No, Serefin’s complaining is inherent to his system. Everything he says must be a complaint,” Ostyia said.

  “I’m going to demote both of you when we get back to Grazyk,” Serefin replied. “Have fun guarding the Salt Mines.”

  Serefin didn’t particularly wish to travel through the marshlands either, but the main roadways would be clogged with Tranavian nobles traveling to Grazyk. He wanted to avoid dealing with the nobility for as long as possible; they were the one thing that could make him miss the front.

  The Tranavian marshes had wooden boardwalks, built centuries ago, else they would be impossible to cross. Serefin had always been certain the reason the front stayed on Kalyazi soil had nothing to do with the strength of Tranavian forces and everything to do with Tranavia being too soggy. Staging any battle in the marsh or lake lands would be difficult and miserable for both sides.

  Unfortunately, the marshlands were perpetually dark. Light struggled to get past the thick foliage. There were legends of demons that lived in the dark corners where the light never touched and the boardwalks never reached. Dziwożona, the marsh hag, or the flesh eating rusalka. Creatures who waited in the damp for the unsuspecting to venture to watery graves. In Tranavia, there was always another monster around the corner waiting to devour you.

  They reached an inn early in the evening, managing to go undetected by the few travelers they passed. Few ventured this way, Tranavian superstition holding most of the country in check. After all, it was always better to simply not risk being dragged underneath the water by a wolke to serve as his slave.

  Serefin sent Kacper inside as he unpinned his badge of office and handed it to Ostyia. Normally he would enjoy using his status in a backwater inn like this one, but Serefin was tired and didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention. The scar on his face was telling enough. He couldn’t go anywhere in Tranavia without being recognized. Hopefully he was dirty enough he would go unnoticed.

  The inn was thankfully quiet, holding only a handful of peasants and a pair who looked like soldiers. Bundles of dried herbs were nailed to the walls, giving the inn a vaguely pleasant aroma. Serefin found Kacper at a table in the corner.

  “Do you want to clean up?” Ostyia asked.

  “Later.”

  She gave him a questioning look.

  “No one has groveled at my feet as yet. I’d like to keep it that way.” He leaned across the table, pitching his voice lower. “I’d also like to get drunk.”

  Ostyia rolled her eyes, grinning.

  “Well, you smell terrible,” Kacper said. “Two weeks of traveling doesn’t look good on you, my prince.”

  “Salt Mines,” Serefin said, distracted, as he flagged down the older man behind the counter. “And what did I just say? Why do you both use my name at the most inappropriate times and my title when I don’t want you to?”

  “To irritate you,” Ostyia said.

  “Definitely, also, you need a new threat.”

  “It’s a perfectly apt threat,” Serefin replied.

  “It’s a reasonable threat,” Ostyia said to Kacper. “I sure don’t want to hang out with the ancient Vultures and their experiments.”

  “But you do want to hang out with the younger Vultures and their experiments?”

  Ostyia’s face flared red. Serefin watched with amusement as Kacper presse
d further.

  “What was her name? Reya? Rose?”

  “Rozá,” she muttered.

  “I’m surprised she has a name,” Serefin mused.

  “They’re supposed to only go by their order title,” Ostyia said. “The court Vultures stopped following that rule years ago, but the current Black Vulture has been working to have them reinstate it to hide their names from the court.”

  The barkeep set three tankards of dzalustek on their table without a word, lumbering back behind his counter.

  Serefin took a sip of ale. It wasn’t good but it wasn’t watered down, either, so it would do. “Did you ever meet the Black Vulture?” he asked Ostyia.

  She nodded. “He’s not your type.”

  Serefin exchanged a dry glance with Kacper. Ostyia grinned at him before getting up to order them dinner.

  It wasn’t until Serefin was on his fourth—maybe fifth? It was hard to keep track—tankard of dzalustek that the uncomfortable meeting he had been so ardently avoiding finally came into being.

  “Your Highness?”

  Ostyia was looking over his shoulder, her face pained. Slavhka, she mouthed.

  Serefin knew he was not supposed to groan aloud at a subject, but that knowledge felt very unimportant after two tankards of ale, let alone four … or five. He turned in his seat.

  At least he recognized this particular noble. It would have been awkward if it had been some backwater princeling Serefin had never seen before.

  Lieutenant Krywicki was a bear of a man who had gone to fat after his tour ended. He was one of the tallest men Serefin had ever met and his width near made up his height. He had a thick head of black hair and eyes the color of coal.

  He was also, Serefin recalled, insufferable. But most people were insufferable, Serefin reasoned, so Krywicki wasn’t anything special.

  Serefin stood, only wavering a little on his feet.

  “Lieutenant Krywicki,” he said, vaguely aware he was going to be slurring every word he spoke. “What brings you to this backwater swamp?”

  Is Krywicki from this backwater swamp? Serefin wondered. He rejected the idea. He was from somewhere else. The north? Probably the north.